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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519362" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Philomela</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth<br>Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,<br>While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,<br>Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;<br>And mournfully bewailing,<br>Her throat in tunes expresseth<br>What grief her breast oppresseth,<br>For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.<br>O Philomela fair, O take some gladness<br>That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!<br>Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;<br>Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish<br>But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;<br>Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,<br>Full womanlike complains her will was broken<br>But I, who, daily craving,<br>Cannot have to content me,<br>Have more cause to lament me,<br>Since wanting is more woe than too much having.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Philomela fair, O take some gladness<br>That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!<br>Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;<br>Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Philip+Sidney">Philip Sidney</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519362" data-title="Philomela de Philip Sidney" data-description="The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth ..."></div> </div> </div>
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